Ser Vardis drove forward off his back foot, his own silver blade descending in a savage arc.
Bronn slammed it aside and danced away.
The knight crashed into the weeping woman, rocking her on her plinth.
Staggered, he stepped backward, his head turning this way and that as he searched for his foe.
The slit visor of his helm narrowed his vision.
Behind you, ser! Lord Hunter shouted, too late.
Bronn brought his sword down with both hands, catching Ser Vardis in the elbow of his sword arm.
The thin lobstered metal that protected the joint crunched.
The knight grunted, turning, wrenching his weapon up.
This time Bronn stood his ground.
The swords flew at each other, and their steel song filled the garden and rang off the white towers of the Eyrie.
Ser Vardis is hurt, Ser Rodrik said, his voice grave.
Catelyn did not need to be told; she had eyes, she could see the bright finger of blood running along the knight's forearm, the wetness inside the elbow joint.
Every parry was a little slower and a little lower than the one before.
Ser Vardis turned his side to his foe, trying to use his shield to block instead, but Bronn slid around him, quick as a cat.
The sellsword seemed to be getting stronger.
His cuts were leaving their marks now.
Deep shiny gashes gleamed all over the knight's armor, on his right thigh, his beaked visor, crossing on his breastplate, a long one along the front of his gorget.
The moon-and-falcon rondel over Ser Vardis's right arm was sheared clean in half, hanging by its strap.
They could hear his labored breath, rattling through the air holes in his visor.